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Thursday, July 30, 2015

Insinuations of Writing Inspirations

Writing is an endeavor that requires persistence and devotion. You leave it for one day, you lose a bunch of vocabulary. Leave it for two, you lose more. I haven’t written a blog post in months. I haven’t written a story or a poem in weeks. I feel blunt.

It took a while of contemplating to write this post, which doesn’t even have a clear topic. I’ve thrown coherence and cohesive principles out of the window (my lecturers will disown me). I am just writing to write, to let the words pour out, and hopefully, reach a point where my typing doesn’t consist of so many jabs at the “backspace” button. The cursor should keep going right and downwards, not tango back and forth on the white blankness due to so many hesitations and edits.

So, what to write about…

I recently had a vocal episode on Instagram, posting poems about life and love and spirit and hope... very typical. It was fun, but I didn’t post anything for a while because we were celebrating Eid and having a family holiday.

I want to write something that is honest and raw and heartfelt and sophisticated. However, where to start…

What does one need to be able to write? Inspiration? Sure. Skills? Of course.

This heart, recently, has been stretched and squished and lifted and drowned and heated and frozen and pounded and flattened and clawed and sewn back together. Sometimes I don’t bother and just apply a Band-Aid. I like my scars, my remnants of battle.

I like how life twists your soul into peculiar shapes and stretches it out again, just to test the limits of its proportions.

Years have gone by so quickly and I am no stranger to experiences and the emotions that come with them. However, I still feel so juvenile and confused… an amateur wishing to succeed in spite of her naivety and ignorance.

So, I should have so much to write about, fueled by anger that needs venting, driven by confusion that needs unraveling, and lead by ambition that to this day, thankfully, has not burnt out.

An insinuation of a quote teases my fingertips. A plethora of poems and proses waits to be written.